Poetry

LISTEN TO ME

Hey.

I am a stranger but listen to me.

My son caught me late one night; sprawled on the kitchen floor.

My face wet from crying, and a stammering lips.

It’s easier to look at a stranger with a husky tone of “Good morning”

Welling from emotions. It is easier.

But not your son.

So I stood, grinned widely despite my bleeding.

I chased him through the garden as he ran through

Falling on the earth, eating the flowers.

He was happy. I was dizzy.

I picked a brush to paint my heart.

There’s a hole, my son points.

I mumble about oddities, my mistakes and the past.

I fill it with a pool of excuses, colours of sepia.

There’s still a hole,  he says.

I was dizzy again, what paint was I missing?

I stumble to his room, a nest of toys, a quagmire of joy..

There are other ways to be happy, I rebuke.

Read a book.

Why aren’t you trying it? he says.

I know. I’m teetering on the edge of everything.

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5 comments

Daniel Olemrabe Kelly June 12, 2019 at 8:45 am

“It’s easier to look at a stranger with a husky tone of “Good morning”

Welling from emotions. It is easier.

But not your son.”

That is because you cannot lie to your self.
Your son will always see the whole however you try to hide it.

Thanks dear.

Reply
Debby Keys June 14, 2019 at 4:22 pm

Thank you too 🙌

Reply
Daniel Olemrabe Kelly June 12, 2019 at 8:46 am

“It’s easier to look at a stranger with a husky tone of “Good morning”

Welling from emotions. It is easier.

But not your son.”

That is because you cannot lie to your self.
Your son will always see the hole however you try to hide it.

Thanks dear.

Reply
Toby June 12, 2019 at 11:15 am

Lol…nice question

Reply
Debby Keys June 14, 2019 at 4:23 pm

🤗

Reply

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